


Bees

by ishouldntbeallowedoutinpublic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bees, johnlock if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-15
Updated: 2013-01-15
Packaged: 2017-11-25 16:04:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/640609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishouldntbeallowedoutinpublic/pseuds/ishouldntbeallowedoutinpublic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bees and Sherlock</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bees

Sherlock likes bees. He’s always liked bees. He’s liked them for as long as he can remember. He remembers being a small child and of about the age of six and just lying in the grass at the bottom of the garden watching them buzz around collecting pollen. He tried to capture one and take it home as his pet, but he ended up getting stung and having Mycroft come to his rescue. He’s fairly sure that’s the only time he’s ever allowed his big brother to look after him.

As a teenager, when no one else would listen  he would sit down at the bottom of the garden and talk to them. The bees just hummed around him but the whole thing was comforting, making him feel less like the entire world was out to irritate him and more like only certain people were morons. They listened as he talked them through the many long and complicated murders he’d seen on TV and then promptly solved. They listened when those other boys at school had decided he was a posh git and therefore needed to be punished for his class. The bees knew the secret behind Sherlock’s bloody shirt, nosebleed and split lip. Mycroft probably knew too, but he stayed out of it and left well enough alone.

The bees were there the day his father died. He’d read them the words he wished he’d said to him. Despite the distance in the relationship with his dad, Sherlock wished he’d been kinder; that he’d hugged him once or twice instead of pushed him away. The bees buzzed in agreement, they understood.

Then Sherlock goes to uni. He’s in the city now and rarely sees the black and yellow fuzzy creatures. It’s a shame; he needs them to talk to the night Seb Wilkes causes trouble and leads Sherlock on a bit.

One night in London Sherlock is completely stoned, but it’s wearing off quickly. Just as he begins to sober up a bee flies past. Sherlock sits mesmerised for a moment, unsure if it’s his imagination or not, he reaches out to follow it with his hand and he gets stung. The peaceful moment shattered. He sucks on his finger and remembers the time when Mycroft had been able to come to his rescue. Mycroft was less ready to care now. Most people were less ready to care.

When Sherlock meets John Watson a new kind of bee enters his life. 221B to be exact. Home. The flat is something he’ll always consider home. Not the Holmes manor with its grand archways and ballrooms. The only thing Sherlock misses from there are the bees. You don’t get them in London’s concrete jungle of concrete flowers. One year he attempts to plant flowers in some window boxes in order to attract some of his long term yellow friends. He’s not a gardener though, and the majority of flowers wilt and die without bringing the yellow companions back.

John notices this attempt though. It shouldn’t surprise Sherlock as much as it does, after all, John’s very good at noticing things when it really comes down to it. John’s noticed the many millions of books on beekeeping that crowd the flat, and the little smile Sherlock gets on his face when the spot the odd worker bee, bumbling from flower to flower and because of this John has a long conversation with Mrs Hudson.

About her fire escape.

And how big a beehive is.

And how many flowers you could get on it without them being a hazard.

And whether or not she likes honey or not.

Then on Sherlock’s birthday he’s woken to a faint buzzing outside his bedroom window. He peers outside to find John stood at the centre of a mess of flowers, little shapes flying around him. Like a child at Christmas he sprints down the stairs to John, watching in awe as bees amble past him.

“Are they mine?” He asks hopefully.

“They’re yours.” John confirms, smiling at his best friend.


End file.
